Those that are Fools
by Vild Runescarred
Summary: A few glimpses at Faerun and beyond seen through the eyes of Ravenika: a warrior, a bard, a Bhaalspawn.
1. When We Whisper Together

When We Whisper Together

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters I'm using, the poetry I'm quoting (yes - I am still abusing T.S. Eliot and maintaining the same, high level of pretentiousness some of you know ;) ) or the setting this story takes place in. Come to think of it, I do not own anything. Have any change? Please? C'mon bro, one more quarter and I can git me a pair of shoes!_

Ever got your arm really battered? I am not talking about getting it sliced with a knife during a tavern brawl. I am not talking about some bruises after a kick from an angry ogre wearing heavy boots. I am not talking about a strong blow delivered by a druid's thick staff. What I am talking about is a half - orcish Bhaalspawn's flail hitting your elbow, shattering it along with the rest of the nearby bones and causing you to lose consciousness just before you would vomit from all the pain. When you finally come to your senses... let it just be said that seeing how you managed to shove the sword from your left hand right into his throat mere moments before realizing what this son of a whore did to your arm is little, if none consolation. And after they patch you up, with two spells and one potion, it still hurts so bloody much that you wonder wether the place you found yourself in is still Saradush, or maybe the Nine Hells. Have you ever felt your tissues re - growing at a pace hundreds of times faster than normal? Ever felt your bones moving inside of the flesh, tearing it apart to reach their right locations?

You had? Then you will probably understand why I could not sleep after defeating Gromnir Il - Khan.

The pocket plane's appearance improved, at least by comparison to what it was during our last visit. Of course, my own private piece of hell was still nowhere near this marble palace of the manipulative bastard called Jarlaxle, but apparently it was getting there - at a slow pace, yet with an admirable determination. Cespenar kept himself busy, showering the place with both useful and useless items taken from the Planes. His findings included a blue, ten - feet diameter round carpet, four bath tubs so huge that even the late Centeol would feel comfortable and a hideously weaved drapery said to be a commemoration of some battle. Why would the imp drag that thing here was a mystery to me: the arras could be called many things, but 'shiny one' was not among them. The curiosum ended up adorning Sarevok's chamber. If not for the marble sculptures depicting the fiery - haired Sune in the strong embrace of Kelemvor, my brother's living quarters would resemble a blind gnome's loom. The huge warrior mentioned expecting a shipment of batallistic paintings by Regnier Alviss... perhaps he needed something to cover the tapestry with.

Although the imp had not yet managed to re - arrange everything, the good and merciful Gods inspired him to organize something that could be called a hellish equivalent of an ale house. Our demonic bulter found some chairs, two tables, few goblets and many a barrel of liquor, from the well - known and loved Elminster's Special, through the dark and bitter Streea, to brewages that only Korgan dared to taste. Mine own order, a set of books, was the most challenging. Cespenar forewarned me of possible mistakes: after all, in many worlds many books were given the same titles, and it was hard to predict wether he gets the exact one I am after or not. So far only two of the grimoires were written in Common. One of them was a lenghty collection of essays concerning elvish wars. Viconia had browsed through it, informed me it was all "rothe iblith", and went about her day. The other book included poetry. I recognized the author after the very first verse. Eldoth quoted many a poet, but favoured only two. The first one was a vagabond and a rogue, and his creations differed as much as one day on the road could differ from another - he wrote drinking songs, pious hymns and even rhymes in thieves cant. The black - haired bard, however, was particulary fond of those in which the thin veil of happiness and pleasure failed to hide the ever present despair, corruption and the melancholy of an animal satisfied, yet not fulfilled.

Cespenar provided me with the second of Kron's most prized authors. While the vagabond poet viewed the world as his dancing partner, the other one preferred to dissect it, diagnosing it's diseases, reading the patterns of cancerous growths and basing his portraits of humans on them. The other books were mostly elvish: written in a language I spoke fluently, yet was not as skilled when it came to reading or writing it. There were also three written by dwarves - the runes, on the contrary, I knew, yet, the words they formed I could not understand. Whatever you do, it still ain't better, as Reevor used to say.

Still, the liquors and the books could keep me company during the hard times of insomnia. In a way, it reminded me of Candlekeep. There were moments when my uneasiness, my urge to leave, my impatience grew so strong that they kept me awake during the long hours of night watch: a lone, involuntary guardian. Unless, of course, Hull wasn't on duty and Imoen was not, in her own words, "grounded". Imoen... a shame, all in all. It was mine own fault, and mine alone, for not arriving soon enough to prevent her from descending into an irrecupperable madness, far beyond any hopes of improvement or healing. I reached for the bottle and filled one of the cups with a golden liquor bearing a heavy scent of herbs and drank. Deeply, fast, almost downing it. I grimaced, yet again gazing upon the tome of poetry. "The Hollow Men"... sometimes I thought the author was a greater prophet than Alaundo himself.

'A lone night, Ravenika?'

Sarevok's deep, mocking voice sounded behind me. Were I not busy with the brewage and memories, I would have heard his approach. Deciding to hide the moment of weakness, I never turned around. Letting the warrior know he managed to catch me unaware would be unwise... Truly, all these games, these little wars, the word fights... and the fact that the only useful allies also could turn against you in a time shorter than the blink of an eye appeared to be yet another of the many sick jokes that Gods made.

'Not as long as the night of your coronation. Sometimes I regret the... interruption.'

I could not see wether Sarevok smiled at the joke or not. When he approached the table to sit next to me, clad in a simple, dark tunic - all strength, dignity and a most curious, rigid kind of grace, his features yet again formed the well - known mask of indifference. My brother's mastery of controlling both the movements of his body and the expressions on his face resembled the skill Eldoth posessed, yet the bard could not match Sarevok's perfection. The trubadour's mask failed him when exposed to fear, pain or too many glasses of wine. Sarevok's: only within rare moments in battle. Each and every time I managed to see it, I was amazed with the similarity of what lay behind our eyes: the raw, sheer joy of fighting and cruelty... yet, not lacking a touch of humour.

'Interruption', he spoke after pouring a cup for himself, 'does not mean cancellation.'

It took me a moment to realize the huge warrior was not jesting.

'You are planning to come back, then.'

The deathbringer gave me a slow nod. My gaze followed the simple lines of the tattoo adorning this skull. I never asked about it, just as I never asked about many things concerning him. It was, may well be, a mistake. The stories he could share... Would it not be an interesting expierience to hear the tales behind the scars that I had not given him? To... look upon them, even?

'I shall. In your company.'

I re - filled my goblet and drunk. No. Even now the plan had not sounded logical nor reasonable.

'I appericate the sentiment, brother, but I have no desire to rule a city.'

'We shall not rule, sister. We shall... conquer.'

He leaned towards me. His speech became silent and fast, as that of a man sharing his greatest dreams with someone he trusted.

'Sword Coast Protectorate. Beregost, Friendly Arm, even your Candlekeep. All towns, villeages and estates united under the rule of Baldur's Gate. After that, the long - awaited annexation of Nashkel.'

'It appears that the war with Amn is your childhood dream, brother.'

And yet, the war - game fascinated me as well. Gazing at the table, I started speaking as I drew the non - existent lines of the remembered map with my finger.

'Amn will react, yet the military is weakened by the on - going campaign in Matzica. A true circus, mind you. They shall send every ship to Baldur's Gate, and whatever is left of their infantry will march to re - claim the town. And the mines...'

'It is a long way', he added, 'expecially for one accustomed to the southern warmth.'

'As for their army... I saw many things there, none of them intimidating. The Council of Six seems to be unable to decide wether they need professional soldiers or knight - errants. As it is, both groups are dying in the jungles, patrolling the streets or looking for damsels in distress.'

He smirked. It was a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had just proven his opponent wrong. And indeed, for a woman who had no desire to rule, I had very elaborate plans of claiming power.

'The golden city will be ours within two years. At longest. Do not worry, sweet sister - you will have an occasion to pick up both your sword and your lute.'

'Too long, still', I disagreed, 'and too expensive.'

'What is your proposal, then?'

'Leave Nashkel in peace. Sabotaging the shipments of iron should prove just as effective as taking the city, not to mention that we will not have to re - build the town later.'

'I think I have heard that one before. Though not from you.'

'I do not mean poisoning it. I mean attacking any caravan...'

'I cannot help but wonder how the Nine Hells did you manage to shapeshift into my sister, Tazok.'

I sighed in frustration. Parda once said that no idea could be called a new one, considering how old Faerun was. The old guy would be delighted if he could hear us now.

'Since I am not an ogre, I have a little... distraction in store for them.'

He understood. I knew he would.

'Sending the fleet to Athkatala, then?'

'Yes. Without bothering about declaring a war, of course.'

It was only then that I became aware that our hands were almost touching, faces only inches away. The feeling was not unpleasant nor unknown. In a way, the closeness of his body was familiar, just as the hilt of one's trusted sword, an instinct that gives one the right to call something their own.

'The Nashkel garrison will march towards Beregost as soon as the news will reach them. Considering the talents of a certain amazing spy network we both had the pleasure to meet, it could happen right now.'

I had to laugh at the image of a Shadow Thief hiding behind one of the twisted sculptures of the pocket plane.

'Strong city defenses can be established. Besides... we always had the ability of manintaining control over various situations, had we not?'

Sarevok noded. The amusement on his face changed into a most caucious calculation.

'It is you who posseses this skill - he corrected - Which is the exact reason why I planned the journey. For... us.'

'And what is in it for you? An experienced general? A bard by your side?'

'You do not understand. It is not me who will gain a general.'

He inclined his head. This minor gesture, this slight bow could not be surpassed by thousands of warriors taking an oath to give me their life and death nor legions of slaves calling me their mistress. My oldest enemy showing respect out of his own free will. I averted my gaze in an attempt to hide the effect his words and conduct had on me.

'No Geas binds you.'

'No. Only reason.'

I defeated him, I thought then. For the last time. There is nothing more to gain, nothing more to take. Even in death, he was filled with hatred towards me, still positive that the power I had was stolen from him, the rightful owner. It took a great humiliation, a cruel death and many a month in hell to finally break him. And yet, while a broken sword was useless, a re - forged one could become thrice as strong as it was before.

'What will you become, Sarevok?', I asked, smiling, 'A tyrant? A ruler? A butcher?'

'I shall become... what you will.'

His eyes were still as empty as before. It appeared that no emotions were hidden beneath his mask, no double meanings. "What you will". Shall you be the same as me, then, or will you become what I wish you to? Something in his voice reminded me of a certain talk the Deathbringer shared with Viconia, a few days back. Something in his voice made me think of bounds and shackles, of the owerwhelming sense of power one feels when administering pain, of the dark desires I discovered in Ust Natha. Another thought, another mental image. Another idea to toy with, along with the imperium we had just planned to create. Another idea to pay for, should I choose to let the imaginations become reality.

What might his price be? A few drops of blood? A handful of countries? A circle of metal around his head? I smirked, yet again, realizing how willing I was to pay.

'Very well then. I accept.'

Sarevok laughed, causing me to wonder wether he took his mask off or just put on a new one. He lifted his cup, and I followed.

'For Sune and Kelemvor?', I asked, arching an eyebrow.

'For Death', he agreed 'and... the Lady of Murder.'

We drank. Once more, my sight rested on the leather - bound poetry book. The whispers of the hollow men could be silent and meaningless. Not even the most skilled wordsmith or the greatest prophet, however, could tell what shall happen if the hollowness will be filled with power - and power alone.

Finis


	2. Another Kind of You

Another Kind of You

A look through one of the windows in Mithrest Inn was a curious experience. The interior of the tavern appeared to had been literally taken from the Coast: chairs and couches upholstered with a green, leathery material; a round, blue carpet, an improvised scene for eventual preformers: bards, actors, speakers. Only the dishes were different: elegant, made of thin glass bend into various shapes. Yet again, I glanced at the yellow cup at my table. It posessed a simple, impractical kind of beauty, was art in and for itself. The melting ice covered the dish with a white, cold mist. Even the temperature in the establishment seemed northern: a pleasant, refreshing chill of an autumn dawn. I had not dared to guess the cost of such an enchantment, as the price was probably way, way higher than my current financial abilities. Expensive or not, this improvement brang relief to countless patrons. It was bliss for those who spent most of their days under the cruel beams of Amnian sun.

Yes - though it was hard to believe even for me, we had found ourselves in Amn, Athkatla to be exact. That was the cause of the strange contrast between the interior and the exterior of Mithrest. Inside: North. Outside: South, South being an archetype, a mariner's tale, an illustration to 'Amnian Nights'. The shiny, sun - heated roofs covered with brass and copper; buildings hewn out of gleaming sandstone; market stalls painted in each and every colour known to humanity. The door and walls of the inn protected it's guests not only from the warmth, but also the noise. Were it not for that, the soft sounds of the preforming bard's song would have surely been drowned in the usual hustle and bustle of the promenade. We would hear the shrill, high - ptched sounds of the snake - charmers flute, low calls of the tours, swearing that their masters wares were the best in the world; the sing - song voices of the storytellers; the commands of beast tamers... and that would have been a waste of the minstrel's talent. The music and the lyrics also came from the Sword Coast. The troubadour started his ninth song:

_Of all the maidens in the land..._

I raised my glass for him and drank, a silent toast. The beer reminded me of Elminster's Special, yet, had a sour, refreshing aftertaste... lemons, maybe? No matter. Once again, I had to admire my comrade's adaptation skills. Any lesser minstrel, should he find himself in Amn, would sing of roses and nightingales, of sultaans and slave girls, of djinns and noble women. Not him. He knew perfectly well what the audience needed. He knew that no one cared to admire the culture of their own country. No; the assembled patrons desired to hear the waves of the Sword Sea. Their dark, Amnian eyes yearned for sights uncommon in their land. That necessity caused him to sing this ballad, so popular in the Gate, so widely preformed: from bawdy taverns to the Duchal Palace. For me, a woman of the same profession, this version was only satisfactory. A work of a skilled artisan, but no more.

Apparently, it was only I, of all the listeners, who was not holding the performance in the highest esteem. Then again, it was only me who knew what the bard could achieve. Eldoth Kron, for whatever reason, rarely showed his true talent... almost as rarely, as his true self. None of the spectators, however, would wish to hear of his true world. None of them would wish to be reminded of how affection could be bought, fidelity sold, a loved one used. The illusionist put the borrowed lute down and bowed. He informed the audience of how his Muse was whimsical and instructed to leave the eventual tokens of apperication with the bartender. His voice was that of a man bored and tired. Tired not because of sleeplessness, of a day spent on gold - earning, of a not - so - dashing escape from a madman's prison. No. The troubadour played a man world - weary, tired with life itself, with gold, with the fame, with his own talent. I had to admit, the man could out - preform me any day. As for me, I had not even bothered to notice the deadly stares of young Amnian girls. No words could describe the rage they felt towards the woman to whom their bard returned. If looks could kill...

'Some lute it was', he remarked after sitting next to me, 'Lute, bah! More like a gourd with strings made of beggar's hair... well, compared to the state of their primitive flutes and whistles...'

I was willing bet the newly gained six hundred gold pieces -five, I corrected myself, five after we found lodging and bought some clothes - that the instrument was not that bad, in fact, that it was not bad at all. I could find out for myself, of course, yet apparently my Muse was as whimsical as Eldoth's, as I had no desire to sing or play.

'I will have to believe you. Your newest adoring fans would never forgive me touching something you handled. The lute is sacred now.'

'Jelous, you think? Funny. I was sure that the half -wits would think we are siblings.'

He was right. The fact that to the eyes of Amnians, every Northerner looked alike was not the only reason. A close inspection would reveal how many details made us look different from one another. His eyes were brown, mine, blue. He was in his early thirties, I have not yet reached mid - twenties. His body was that of a hedonistic intellectual, mine: that of a fighter. We shared only one trait: the black colour of our hair. Still, there must have been another similarity between us. The way of speaking, the voice, the gestures, the bearing? I had not known. Whatever it was, it caused quite a few people to draw false conclusions concerning our consanguinity.

'You there, wench!', the bard called, 'Wine for the troubadour!'

I sighed. His nouveau riche manners were painfully parochial - and yet, very effective with servants or slaves. Indeed, giving orders was an art similar to that of a beast tamer: it was all about the tone of one's voice. Apparently, my companion chose the right way to adress the serving maid: a bottle of wine appeared before him within seconds.

'I am still surprised', he spoke, pouring the liquor to a crystal goblet, 'That you chose not to preform. For those of... your unusual ancestry, a wrongful death should provide a suitable inspiration.'

'As you can see, 'tis not so.'

'A shame, truly. As for me, I feel the need to preserve your last night's feat in a ballad for future generations. As for now, I managed to create only the title. A Pearly Tear...'

I pulled my hair back, showing him the new earring. The shining, bright mother - of - pearl was shaped into a small drop, adorned with a little gem cut in many facets.

'Put this instrument away as well, Eldoth. No words would make me feel the guilt you are trying so hard to evoke.'

He raised the goblet and drank, downing almost all of it's content. It looked like the minstrel wanted to experience not the wine's taste, but it's intoxicating effects.

'I would not dare to attempt such a thing. 'Tis folly, considering your heritage. Myself, I did play a part in this innocent death, that I shall not deny. Just between the two of us, fair Ravenika, I do not regret it.'

Maybe you would, I corrected in thought. Maybe you would, had your part consisted not only of throwing witty remarks into the conversation I had with our client. For a moment, I toyed with my memories, remembering those who would resent my deed. Gorion, stern and unapproachable. The ever sad Kivan, once my friend. Imoen. And, maybe, my younger self.

'For me', I stated after a brief silence, 'It is not a question of regret.'

Eldoth raised his eyebrows: an expression of kind interest, a non - verbal 'by all means, do continiue.' I had been sure that te troubabour shall yet again announce what he thought of women and their dependency on emotions. He held his peace, however. Maybe, after what I had done that night, he will not share such observations in my presence ever again.

'Just... disbelief. I think it would be safe to say that I still do not believe I actually did it.'

The corners of the bard's lips twitched in a slight smile. Slight... and most probably honest. I felt the urge to note this rare occurance in my journal.

'I understand... maybe I understand even more than you think', he assured, 'It is why I have to protest. My dear, dear Ravenika, it was not you who committed this atrocity. For such quests, one should hire a mercenary. A mercenary from inside his or her psyche... the so - called another kind of oneself.'

'And this kind of me will take the blame, I gather?'

'Why, no! This kind of you will refuse to feel it. I understand the impact our involuntary visit to the madman's dungeon had on your memory, but both of us have done this before, not once nor twice! Would you allow me to explain more throughly, using a proper example?'

'Go on...'

'Skie. Do you remember Skie?'

I remembered, yes. Still, she was probably alive, from what I knew. Which was not the case with a girl resembling her, in a way...

The dust, rising from the heap of the post - explosional debris, piled in the centre of the disctrict, had danced in the warm air. Illuminated by the sun, the twirling, sparkling ash resembled countless grains of diamonds. Everything seeed to shine here: the roofs of the temples, the bronze dishes from the bazaar. The weapons, still clenched in the hands of the dead thieves, gripped in this last effort of their lives. The colorful, non - material remains of the spells, cast mere moments ago by Imoen, the hooded mages and a man called Irenicus. The destruction was a beautiful catastrophe, beautiful and irrevocable. A breach in the wall. Great pieces of stone, threwn all over the marketplace. The bodies of those fallen in a conflict someone called 'Guild war'. It looked like the explosion left other people undamaged. No screams to hear, no dying ones to look upon. No on - lookers, even. It appeared that the people here decided to stay clear of wizards and their matters. A wise approach.

Looking away from the magnificent destruction, I started to consider mine own situation. Eldoth and me, alive, out of a madman's maze. And that was where the good news ended. We had one hundred and twenty gold pieces, a primitive chainmail, an atrocity made out of calfskin, probably in vain attempts of crafting a leather armour; a crossbow worth two pieces of gold and a short blade worth three. There was also a two handed sword, magical and seemingly powerful. The sword Sarevok wielded in the Undercity... Besides the pathetic state of our belongings and the lack of coin, there were a few other things to worry about as well. A madman who managed to abduct us both without effort, the war for influence we have found ourselves in the middle of, Imoen, kidnapped to Gods - know - where...

'Not good. Not good at all.', I concluded.

Eldoth snorted.

'Truly, Ravenika, I never suspected you would be the one to use euphemisms.'

'If you wish to listen of how doomed we are, I shall find Xan.'

I went down to the epicentre, searched the dead bodies. It was a most unpleasant chore, and, alas, an unrewarding one as well. The indignity provided me with two minor spell scrolls and six gold pieces. Great. Just great.

'And they say Athkatla is paved with gold', I complained after returning to the bard.

'Ah, yes, this architecture is unmistakable, is it not? Judging by the size of this bazaar, we might be in Athkatla indeed. In any case, I suggest we sell the sword and look around... surely some explanation of the whole havoc should arise eventually.'

'No. I am not selling it.'

'Beg your pardon?'

'You heard me. I refuse to sell my brother's sword.'

'Am I to understand that you deprive us of two thousand or more gold pieces because of some idiotic whim?'

'You are to understand', I spoke slowly, 'that I shall not sell Sarevok's weapon. It was me who was the leader when you decided to leave. Nothing in this regard had changed during your absence.'

'Then I take it I should be greatful for getting dragged here? Do you find that a fitting reward for my fight against this oaf Anchev?'

'Not a reward at all', I had not raised my voice, as I never had a habit nor need for doing this, 'As you decided not to enter the Undercity. Whoever captured you was probably not aware of this fact. Myself, I remember. Clearly.'

He gave up, stepped back, lowered his gaze. Eldoth Kron was not a brave man. Were he one, he would have probably been dead by now.

'Very well. What is your proposal, then?'

'A bath. And a few hours of sleep. For that, one hundred and twenty six is more than enough. We shall decide the further course later.'

The minstrel grimaced, as if my mention of the current, pathetic financial situation caused him pain. Suffering or not, he followed me as I headed towards the inn I had noticed. 'Mithrest Inn', read the silvery nameplate. The door was opened: a pleasant, chilly wind was blowing from the inside. Yes. This was the kind of place I wanted to visit. Alas, it looked like the two young guards by the door, both armed with sabres, begged to differ.

'The Copper Coronet will be a more suitable place for you, madam', the first recommended.

'Situated in the Slums.'

'Dear lads, could you not make an exception in the name of ar...'

'Be silent, Eldoth.'

He obeyed. We have been travelling together for a few years now. During these years, he learned to recognize the tones of my voice. The one I used now was usually a prelude to bloodshed.

'Dear lads', I repeated after him, yet in a less friendly manner, 'If you really wish for me to show you what the toys in your hands should be used for, say it again.'

'You will not dare to attack here, in front of all the guards!'

'Easy, easy!', sounded an exclamation from the inside of the establishment, 'Easy, no need for violence, no need!'

After a brief moment, a short, bald and dark - skinned man stood between us. His belly, huge and resembling a shaman's drum in shape made him look like a halfling... a hairless halfling.

'No need for violence' he repeated, panting, 'These people are dear friends and guests of mine.'

'Guests?', one of the boys repeated.

'Yes, dear lad', it seemed everyone adressed them that way, 'Guests. Welcome guests.'

Eldoth smiled. He regarded the man in the way all handsome bards would regard all plump, bald men of unidentified profession. The fact that the said bard was wearing rags while the plump, bald man in question was clad in the finest green silk had not changed anything. Anything at all.

'Thank you for the hospitality', he said, all dignity and grace, 'Lead on!'

The table occupied by our mysterious benefactor was situated a few steps away from the exit.

'Ah, here at last. Sit, sit please, one of the servants will take care of your weapons... Let me offer you some drinks, weary travellers. This fine establishment has the eldest wine and the best beer... one gulp and you will wish to remain here for the rest of your lives!'

I glanced at my companion. The minstrel seemed not surprised at all - rather amused, if anything. He was accustomed to such treatment. The cordial politeness of our mysterious host was nothing unusual for the troubadour... for me, such behaviour was a reason for suspicion. After the servant handed us our brevages of choice, the man smiled widely, showing quite a few golden teeth.

'If you allow me to introdouce myself. Saerk Farrahd, merchant and a priest to Lady Waukeen. Not to mention, your friend till death and beyond.'

This mixture of northern professionalism and southern rethorics amused me. The strange situation was a potential funny experience, all in all...

'Ravenika of Candlekeep, warrior and bard.'

'Master Eldoth Kron, troubadour.'

'Ah. Both serving the art, then?'

We exchanged glances, almost identical smiles curving our lips. Blasphemous as it may sound, it was art that served us. No other way. Fortunately, Farrahd seemed not to care about subtelties enough to inquire:

'I do enjoy a cautionary tale, a song with a moral... is there anything more beautiful than a story which were it graven with needle gravers upon the eye corners, were a warner for whoso would be warned and an example for whoso can take profit from example...'

Gods, now I remembered why I never finished 'Amnian Nights'.

'But you, dear Ravenika, seem to be a warrior as well?'

Sarevok's greatsword was a hint enough, it seemed.

'You are right', I confirmed, not wanting to go into details, 'Allow me to say how greatful I am for the friendship you offer. I cannot help but wonder, however, of it's... consequences.'

Eldoth sighed. Maybe, after all, I should have let him deal with the merchant. The bard would toss insults as eagerly as an Ilmaterite would toss coins to the beggars, but his knowlegde of the Southern customs was far greater than my own.

'This is why I enjoy the company of Northerners', Saerk decided to overlook my faux - pas, it seemed, 'The honesty! The simplicity! Good Gods know how much the world needs it. You, my dear friends, are salt of Faerun... very well. I shall get to the point, as you wish...'

Six thousand, I repeated to myself, walking through the streets, now quiet and dark, covered with the shroud of the desert night. I stuck to the shadows, ignored the beggars, yet avoided those to pale to be of the living. Victims and predators. Sheep and wolves. The strong and the weak. So it goes. A contract killing. Who cares if Farrahd hired us because no other thug in the city would sink so low? Because no other thug in the city was desperate enough? A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. A deed, a coin pouch, a deed, a coin pouch. So it goes. Six thousand. I stalked around the Council's building, unseen by the night watch. Found the right house. The door was locked, yet it was no hindrance for me. So it goes. Six thousand.

I entered the residence, silent enough to hear the sounds of weeping, comming from one of the rooms. It was half - opened. The light was on. As if someone was expected. Someone who made a habit of late night returns...

Looking inside of the room, I noticed a girl. She was kneeling, facing the window, her back turned towards the now opened door. Prayed, perhaps. I had not cared to listen, to hear her invoking the name of Helm, asking the Watcher to guide her father, to cure him of his affliction, to make him happy again, to protect her brother. I had not wanted to see, to notice her brush, laying on the cabinet. I had not wanted to wonder wether her shiny, auburn hair recieved the hundred essential brush strokes yet. I had not cared to know how her life was a danger to Saerk. A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. So it goes.

She was young. She was praying. She was crying. Yet, it was no hindrance for me.

When she turned around, gasping, startled by the sight of my shadow on the white carpet, I caught a gleam of light on a peal earring. A tear - shaped one.

So it goes.

Saerk Farrahd was most pleased. He paid the price. He shed two tears, remembering his daughter, an innocent flower of his house. He told us to visit Lethinan, whenever we have a chance, as the man would surely love to hire someone just like me. The next morning every herald in the city would share the horrible news of a tragic and decpicable murder of the maiden Moira Delryn, a friend to everyone, a loving sister and a most devoted daughter.

A contract killing. It is normal, normal and not rare within my line of work. So it goes.

'I do remember Skie, yes', I noded, 'Still, the previous owner of my lovely earrings surely would not turn out as annoying.'

Eldoth twirled the wine in his goblet.

'That is of no consequence. In the end, it is all about you. Or, in the context, about... the another kind of you. You see, the kind that commits such crimes. Split yourself in two and you shall gain a powerful ally', he jested.

I motioned for the waitress to bring me another beer. It was easy to follow Eldoth's train of thought. The killer within me was different from the bard who also dwelled in my psyche. I saw it there, in the Government District, where I was unaffected by it's beauty, by the victim's innocence, by anything other than six thousand gold pieces and the contract I agreed to fulfill.

'Convenient', I complimented after taking a sip of the brewage.

'Indeed. Also, I hear the town - criers mentioned a sufficient reward for bringing the murderer to justice.'

'Don't even think about it...'

'Oh, I would not dare. You would have killed me without any doubts, would you not?'

'Not me. The other kind', I corrected, smirking 'As for the ballad... I think I might write one myself. It will be hard to think of a non - pretentious title, alas.'

'I think the name of my humble philosophical concept would be fitting.'

Another kind of you, I mused. Very well. And now, for the melody...

_Finis_


	3. Of Blood and Water

Of Blood and Water

'You ready, poet?'

Suna Seni, the half - elf, looked upon Eldoth. There was dislike in her large, green eyes, dislike and quite a great deal of despise. She had not liked him. She had not found him appropriate - not fitting her own tastes, the quest ahead and the place we found ourselves in: the Docks District. According to the locals, being out of place was a sin. Sometimes a mortal one. I, too, was guilty. Perhaps as guilty as my companion.

Within daylight, the sun - heated 'thieves' nest' would seem dangerous only to paranoics and madmen. In the morning, it were the fishermen who ruled it. In the middle of the day, merchants would take charge. The afternoon, a truly brilling and golden one, was the time for the Docks to become an interregnum. The only reminder of the place's ill fame was a building in the northwest: a large construction made of orange bricks, it's dark windows staring into the streets as if they were no windows at all, but eyes: restless, blood - shot eyes of the night watchers. And another oddity: the silence, so very different from the usual hustle and bustle of the city. Different enough to be unsettling. To hear a cry there, during the long hours of an Amnian day, was a rare occurence. Even rarer it was to hear a cry that would be articulate.

The Docks would wake up at night. The mask of peace and complacency would be ripped off without mercy nor hestitation, revealing the true face of the district. Fishmongers, merchants and most of the beggars would disappear from the streets, now shadowy in spite of the brightness, beaming from the oil street - lanterns. The lighthouse in the far southeast, crowned with a magnificent flame that was flickering in the slight breeze, resembled a war - signal in it's grandery. The darkness of night, however, has won yet again. Even the mariners, bold and almost regal during the day, were nowhere to be seen now. And yet, somehow, it was after dark when the district would flood with people. Great numbers of humans, dwarves and halflings. A wary beholder would even manage to spot an occasional elf, half - orc or other being of mysterious provienience. Most members of this varied society appeared to be in a hurry. Most of them would not take kindly to any questions. A traveler's best bet was to integrate, to stay unseen, to become just one of many.

Eldoth and I failed at the attempt to do so. First of all, we were Northerners among Amnians. Should the need arise for a priest or a medic to identify our eventual corpses, the man would surely shed tears of joy - the obvious appearance differences between us and the locals were almost too obvious. Second: it was not only the looks. We were different. To quote Suna Seni: we were poets. Poets among ruffians, thieves, cutpurses and drunkards. Elegantly clad poets who had lost their way into the Government District and carried weapons just for the sake of some jolly tomfoolery.

'Why, yes', the bard inclined his head, 'half - elf.'

The troubadour's way of imitating her tone and sneer was a most skillful one. Eldoth's gibes were as well - aimed as the bolts from his crossbow. This time, he shot the target with unerring accuracy yet again. For while the two of us looked out of place in the Docks, Suna Seni looked out of place within her own skin.  
There is not much I know of the elves. Their half - human cousins remained an even greater mystery to me. During my travels, I had the chance to meet only two of such beings: Jaheira and Khalid, friends and allies of my late foster father. Our meeting was a short one. It had lasted for half - a - night, the exact amount of time I needed to convince this adventuring couple to accept a certain pink - haired roguesse into their care. In such circumstances, I had little time for culture studies.  
I was positive they had fallen in Imoen's defense; seeing her in Irenicus dungeon was a sign clear enough. They seemed to be the ones to keep their promises, even those given to the dead. Perhaps it was a question of mixed blood, too: personally, I never let such sentiments govern my actions, and believed the majority of the race of men would not succumb to such foolishness either. Half human or not, the druidess and the warrior took after their elven parents. Blood, yet again, proved to be thicker than water. Which was not the case with the woman accompanying us...

For Suna Seni was human. A human woman of lithe build, with pointed ears and large, oddly green eyes. In spite of her looks, there was nothing, absolutely nothing elvish about her. It was not only the question of scars, which she had many. The majority of them, I believed, was situated on her head, uncovered by the military haircut. A part of Seni's ear was missing, so was a piece of flesh just below the jaw. A large, red cicatrix traced the width of her neck. I gathered this eerie duplicate of a smile served as a memorandum. A wordless 'be wary' scarred across her throat. The skin of her uncovered arms had not looked any better. The rest of Suna Seni's body was covered: with a dark leather armour and wide mariner's trousers. It was most fortunate, as I had no desire to admire the rest of this pattern.

'Mighty nice', the half - elf replied, 'Gonna be there soon. And mayhaps then I'll see why the hell would boss hire you two... bards.'  
It was a scorn at first sight. The feeling, I admit, was mutual. Our companion held a peculiar distrust towards those different from her usual work partners. Her doubts concerning our efficiency were justfied: neither of us had much experience with quests resembling the one at hand. For me, slave trade was a profession resembling grave digging or street cleaning. It was necessary to maintain order, yet, was not a prestigeous thing to do. Alas, the circumstances...

Well, it was the circumstances that brought us together, two poets and one thug, now passing the Sea's Bounty by and heading south, towards the quay. One of the captains there, we had been told, possessed merchandise we were ought to deliver to Lethinan. The merchandise was fettered and had pointed ears.

'Watch ye out, now.'

I spotted them a few moments after Seni's warning. Four thugs, waiting at the stone stairway that led to the lower part of the district. They looked similar to one another; so similar that it was clear to see even within the half - light. The woman gestured for us not to follow her and approached them.

'Standin' about in the night, eh?', she inquired, 'Thumb threw ye chaps out?'

The shortest of them spat on the ground. Maybe it was a customary welcome among the street ruffians of Athkatla.

'Invited us, he did. Knows we'll be havin' plenty o' bits to buy drinks with, 'afore nine clean comes.'

I had to cringe at his pathetic attempts of using the cant. So much incompetence around...

'Plannin' to win a bet on rat fights?', the half - elf mocked.

The tall one reached for a throwing axe, hanging at his belt.

'Easy, Third', the first one commanded, 'And you, mongrel, know what I'm gettin' at. Go ye home, I says.'

'This is my home.'

He snorted, obviously deaf to the threat ringing in her voice.

'Then go ye to another room, eh? I'm askin' nicely, I am. We take 'em contents, ye lot goes unharmed. Deal?'

Suna Seni laughed. 'Twas a shrill and high - pitched sound, resembling the howl of a bean sidhe. And death it foretold, indeed...

'Wouldnay be better', she asked, 'if ye waited till we have the goods? Jumped at us then? Eh?'

'Watch out!'

The one going by the name of Third apparently decided that it would not be better at all. The half - elf, heeding my warning, avoided the hatchet, flying in her direction. I heard the familiar sound of a crossbow string being released, the hiss of a bolt cutting it's way through the air. Eldoth missed. His first shots would always miss the mark. I yanked my two knives out off their scabbards, spinning the blades in my hands. Suna Seni, at the very same moment, unsheated her shortsword. We charged toghether: two lauging women against four enemies.

'Get the shooter first! Get the shoot...'

The wheeze that came after proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was the shouter whom the shooter got first. The leader's last words, however, had not gone unheeded, as one of the men rushed to Eldoth, long knife in hand. Seni had stopped him half way, sending the thug to the ground with a quick slash to the stomach. The two remaining ruffians went forth to take my life. Refusing to retract at the assault of such as them, I leaned forward and stabbed the nearing men with both knives, gutting both of them and sending the two to the lowest pits of Nine Hells. It was only when their lifeless corpses dropped to the ground that I noticed a shallow yet long cut at my left arm, slicling the sleeve of my dress in half. A shame. Such an equisite shade of green, now ruined by blood: once again - thicker than water and infinitely harder to wash off.

Suna Seni smiled, gazing upon the corpses. One of the men was still struggling, not accepting Kelemvor's irreversible decision. Clenching his hands, he crawled, attempting to escape us and leaving a trace of claret and impurities on the pavement. The other one, Third, I believed, would not give up as well. He kept trying to shove his intensines back where they belonged, his hands glowing red with the blood Suna spilled. The troubadour approached us, his lips twiched downwards with disgust.

'Coup - de - grace, dear ladies?'

The half - elf's eyes met mine. We spoke simultaneously, as twins would do, even though there was not even a slightest similarity between us:

'No. Let them die.'

As we were walking back, much later, leading two fettered elves along, Third was still breathing. Still suffering. Still dying.

Here, in one of the many backrooms of the tavern Copper Coronet, it was safe to uncover the elves' faces. Suna Seni, heeding Lethinan's order, ripped the sack off their heads, revealing their angular features and two pairs of eyes, now burning with hatred and fear alike. 'Twas a most fascinating anamorph; almost as fascinating as the one embodied by the tavern's owner. For it was truly strange to hear such a man giving commands to anyone; to see him wield any amount of power, even if devoid of meaning or importance outside the tavern walls. The landlord resembled a rat in looks, a rat larger and stronger than most, but still a rat... The leader of his pack, perhaps, I mused. It had to be this inconsiderable authority that gave him the right to rule there, in this filthy kingdom of drunkards and base pleasures.

It was, however, only our companion who would succumb to his leadership. Even one of the captured elves protested, straining in his shackles, making the chains rattle as if we were all playing our parts in some cheap, parlour macabresque. He paid us no heed, however, as his gaze was fixed on Suna Seni, his half - blood sister.

'Saura pereadan', he exclaimed, 'Di'thong an atanir!'

She had not understood; if she would, however, the response would not be any different. With a swift blow, she struck the slave's face, causing his noble nose to bleed.

'Na - dina, llye huan', I replied, adding the verbal response just for good measure.

Lethinan yanked on their chain, almost knocking both elves of their feet.

'Snough!', he spat, 'Day comes, ye'll see 'em bleedin' at the arena. You two tell Surly to pay, five hundred as said, fair an' true. Want somethin', tell Bernard, on the house tonite. Just don't be takin' too much. Oy, you! Take 'em to the cells.'

When the owner and one of his bouncers went out of the room, swinging the door shut in their wake, Suna Seni smiled yet again.

'Ya speak the gibberish, aight?', she asked, 'What did the pansy call me?'

'A filthy half - human', I replied, in a tone so courteous that even Tethoril would approve, 'Servant to the race of men.'

'You will have to forgive his redundancy', Eldoth, the avatar of rethorical magnanimity, decided to interfere, 'As he was clearly distressed. On a side note, 'tis outburst provided me with an opportunity to make a most interesting linguistic observation. As already established, pereadan translates as half - human... a curious equivalent for the term half - elf we use in Common. 'Tis a verbal illustration of the fact that both cultures put more stress on what is alien, unknown, not to mention that it betrays the differences between both concepts of default creatures... Of course, in the given context half - human serves as a derogatory racial term. Such a slur proves beyond any doubt that the elves, even fettered and humiliated, would never abandon the ridiculous notions of their race's supremacy and superiority...'

I held my peace, knowing it all and firmly agreeing with what had been just said. Why, I agreed so firmly that I found his lecture unecessary, his observations obvious. The bard was not trying to impress me, however. If his elloquence was aimed at Suna, he failed as well, as she was clearly pondering something entirely different than linguistics. It was also possible that Eldoth spoke only for the sake of it - the troubadour loved to impress himself.

'Well, my Lady Greensleeves', he concluded, adressing me, 'I shall go to the common room, to toast yet another heroic feat worthy of a song. Shall you accompany me?'

'Aye, in a moment.'

He noded at Seni and left. It was only then that the scarred woman spoke:

'Called me filthy, eh? He's the one gonna get filthy, ye'll see fer yerself, poet, when he goes out on the arena, kills for 'em 'ere, kills to live. Will hate 'imself, he will. I should know right.'

I regarded her for a moment, thinking of what the half - elf had just said. In a sudden illumination, I realized that most probably, were I to see the rest of her body, the rest of her scars, I would be able to discover that not all of the marks have been left by weapons. I was sure, absolutely sure, that some of them, deep and even, would be memorandums of a slave - driver's whip.

'And as fer me servin', she continiued, 'He ain't got that 'un rite, either. He's the slave now, not me. Ya know, I'm...'

For the first time since the fight in the Docks, she looked me straight in the eye.

'I'm werkin 'ere fer pleasure, now.'

I smiled back. Even though the blood was thicker than water, Suna Seni took nothing, absolutely nothing, after her elven parent.  
Some would say, however, that she was no more humane than she was elvish.

Finis


	4. The Charming and the Tedious

The Charming and The Tedious

_'Do you remember Skie?'_

_ Eldoth_

'How is she?'

'Sleeping. I guarantee it is going to last long enough.'

I sighed, relieved. The constant lamentations of our resident orphan of a war - to - be were getting a bit monotonous. Her repertoire would not change. And they said grief and loss were the parents of greatest poems. Naive, up stuck fools. The girl's father had been providing us with gold, that I shall not deny. Yet, there were some limitations to even to my patience. Dead people did not pay. Those remaining amongst the living, then, were not obliged to keep their promises. Eldoth, who would probably agree with me at this point, entered my chamber. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, he collapsed on one of the couches. He gazed the furnishings and tapestries, obviously content with what he saw.

'These rooms are truly comroftable, here, in the Helm and Cloak, are they not?'

'You do not hear me complain, do you.'

I looked out of the window, through a thick yet clear sheet of glass. The setting sun seemed to create a new city, far more beautiful than the one we knew from the mornings. The long shadows veiled the dirt and grayness into a thick, dark shroud. Like a skilled illusionist, it transformed the ugliness into a mystery worth discovering. The light, both gold and red, painted the buildings anew, shined on the windows, crowned the heads of many statues. We had plenty of time, still. Lobar wanted to meet us later. When the bells of many temples shall strike the first hour of the night watch.

'Are you sure she will not stir, wake up and take her leave?', I asked yet again.

The bard pursed his lips. This grimace was almost womanly... a most curious sight, considering how much he detested those of the fairer sex. To tell the truth, I could not blame him. After all, I have met some of his financial providers...

'I am sure. In the highest degree. Such an amount of both black lotus and Ramazith's special could put a half - orc to sleep. The mage assured it shall bring pleasant dreams... the cow is probably buying a new dress somewhere over the rainbow', he chuckled.

I smiled at the joke. Good Gods knew the girl in question had little time to indulge in this favourite activity of hers. Given the circumstances... 'Ravenika, could I visit the Sundries? Ravenika, look, this ring is so pretty, a real sapphire, and I think it can cast spells! Ravenika, what does Eldoth say about me when I am not around? Ravenika...' The voice evoked by my memory was apparently less high - pitched and irritating than it's real equivalent. For a brief moment, I felt sadness and melancholy. Melancholy and something different, almost cordial. Pity, perhaps? Was that still possible? No matter, I dismissed the thoughts. Feelings like these bore ill consuels, I have learnt this lesson in the past, and learnt it well.

I heard the troubadour shifting.

'Speaking of liquids... could you be so kind and pour me some wine?'

'There is a crystal decanter on the chest up there. Feel yourself at home.'

The man sighed, coming to terms with the fact that he would have to move, after all.

'A glass for you, as well?'

'If you would be so kind.'

'Ah, the things I do for friendship...'

After a short moment he stood beside me, two glasses in hand. I accepted the one he offered and smiled, allowing myself joy from this petty triumph. I knew it was usually him who was served: in all ways, shapes and forms. Those enthralled by him waited on Eldoth hand and foot, considering fulfilling his whims a priviledge without equal. We have been travelling together for a year now, fought many battles and shared many victories. However, even then, after all these experiences, I would still want to engage in those countless, little power games - and would still win them. It was a thrill. And thrills were my greatest vice.

'What is so worth admiring outside these walls, fair Ravenika?'

'I love this city. A quintessence of humanity. A triumph of evil.'

Smiling, I raised my glass. The bard drank, too, yet did not agree with the last sentence:

'As a libertine and a worldly man, I refuse to use such simplified terms... as you, my dear, very well know.'

'And yet, even a libertine needs some common ground, language - wise, with other mortals... Using their standards, we must come to a conclusion that what we are planning to do, for example, is evil in it's purest form.'

'The conclusion would be entirely different if we used reason instead of such petty and barbaric moral codes and social taboos. You see, it is all a matter of principle. If, say, we refuse to describe people as good or bad...'

It looked like one of his favourite quotations was on it's way to my ears yet again.

'... but instead, we describe them as either chaming or tedious, and judge them by that and that only, you will find that our little alliance is an assembly of all what is noble. On the contrary, the little princess sleeping in the next room is the epitome of evil.'

I let out a silent, short laughter.

'My dear Eldoth, you have just proved that selling a maiden away to the Low Lantern brothel is a honorable deed.'

He filled the glasses again and saluted. We drank.

'And that, my dear Ravenika', he spoke, 'Is why I adore philosophy.'

The sea was anything but calm that night. Even the enslaved, trusted waters of the quay were swaying in rapid and uneasy motions. They were jerking the ships, pulling on the moorings, stirring the reflections of the bright, magical lights adorning the Harbor Master's building. The air bore midnight chill and a strong scent of salt. I did not think of Candlekeep; I had no desire to remember Candlekeep. I focused on the slight sillouhette covered in a navy blue, adorned cloak, fastened with a golden fibula. On the rope, binding the little figurine's wrists. On the bard, putting one arm around the silent girl.

'I ask again. Are you absolutely sure she is properly intoxicated and will cause no problems?'

'For the hundredth time, my dear and persistent Ravenika, I answer: I was not sparing on...'

'Could ye folks be any louder here, eh?'

I failed to hear the silent steps, failed to see the short and thin man approaching us. The little, rat - faced man bowed his head; a mockery of this courteous gesture. He was good. Exceptionally good at staying unseen. Lobar's messenger could not have been any different. I smiled at him. Eldoth's grimace told me it was not a friendly smile. At all.

'It is Fist territory, then', I concluded, 'Not yours, as your master claims.'

'Ours, not ours, we should all shut our japs and get down to bussiness. Got the goods?'

Were Eldoth not holding the 'goods' in question, he would surely bow to this scum. Gods.

'As you can see, always true to our promises.'

'Goody good. Lemme see...'

He pulled down the hood, covering our captive's features. The strangers gaze wandered over her brown hair, her angular features and her eyes: now dark and blind, a living portrayal of senselessness. He noded his head, obviously satisfied.

'Must be her. Good. Now go after me, gonna guide ye through the, heh, heh, backdoor...'

We obeyed. Lobar's messenger led us into one of the deserted, shabby houses. He opened the lock and stopped near the doorstep, gazing into the seemingly impenetrable darkness of the interior. The place reeked of rotting wood. I twirled my fingers in the simplest magic gesture, whispered three words. A small globe of white, bright light appeared in my hand. Released, it sailed into the air, revealing the dusty floor, an opened basement door and a stairway behind it. Our guide smiled and stepped into the empty apartament, motioning for us to do the same.

'Handy trick, missy.'

The way downstairs was a long one. The girl stumbled with every step, rendered unconscious and helpless by the substants Eldoth made her drink. Her hands, even weaker than usual, refused to grip the railings or to seek help from Eldoth or me.

'Whatsa with ye folks? First timers or what? Carry her upon yer backs fer all I care, but hurry up afore the sun rises, eh?'

My companion started his incantation: a spell recited by a powerful, calm voice - so different from the way he usually sounded. After the final syllable and gesture, our load collapsed into the arms of Eldoth, put to sleep with the powerful charm.

'What, pray tell, are you looking at? Your unnatural interests have made you the stronger of us two, fair warrior maiden. Do the honours.'

I made no comment, just grabbed the girl by her ankles and wrists and loaded her upon my back, across the shoulders, holding her all the while. She was heavier than I expected. It appeared that the trip downstairs would be a test of strength... We went out through a large breach in the wall. The magical light I created started to flicker, than disappeared. Darkness or not, it was a sure thing that we reached the canals. The stench was unmistakenable, so was the hard, stone floor.

'Got more o'this will o - the - wisp thingy, missus? Wouldn't need to fumble 'round with the blasted torch.'

'Eldoth? My hands are full, as you can see.'

'Bah, such parlour tricks. Very well...'

The light he summoned was green, adding to the setting.

'Whoa, neat! Ye folks should work fer a tavern or so, kids these days love that stuff. Mighty nice of ya, master. Come along!'

A long and almost suffocatingly narrow corridor lead us to a solid ladder of metal rungs. The stranger climbed it first.

'Up with ye!', he commanded, his voice resonating through the hall.

Lovely. Just lovely.

'Help me, Eldoth.'

He took the girl off my shoulders, stepped behind me and held her against me, back to back, unfastened the rope binding her hands. I reached behind and tied her to me; a strange, eight - limbed animal adorned with a hempen line serving as a belt. Slowly, I climbed up. Each rung was it's own victory, a separate foe to overcome, a new fight to win. I did not fail. With the last effort of my exhausted body, I hoisted us both, and reached the wooden floor of the upper room with one slow slide. The bard came after me, reached the top within seconds and stepped over us to sit on one of the two chairs there. The room was quite large, a store house may be, with lots of barrels and chests lined beside the walls. The muffled sounds of a usual tavern cacaphony comming from the upper floor betrayed that we probably found ourselves in the cellar of the Low Lantern brothel.

'Ye folks wait, gonna get Lobar.'

I untied the rope, enjoying the sensation of the body weighing half of what it did mere seconds before. After catching a few breaths, I stood up and sat beside my companion. I unfastened the fibula of my black cloak and the laces of the dark blue doublet I wore. After a brief search, I found my comb, carved in bone. While adjusting the messy hair, I whispered one of the most useful incantations, gesturing with the unoccupied hand. The air around us, including ourselves and our garments, stopped bearing the awful stench of the canals. Eldoth observed my ministrations with an amused grimace.

'Always elegant.'

This remark could have been an insult or a compliment; I did not care to interpret it. With another motion of my hand, I changed the colour of the bard's magical torch into light yellow. The unconscious girl laying on the floor looked far more graceful in such a setting: peaceful, sleeping - a picture of a perfect maiden, ripped from a children's book. Splendid. I lent the comb to my fellow bard. He was so content that he even graced me with a thank you.

'Very thoughtful of you.'

As he took care of his appearance, the door swung open. Lobar, a large and fair - haired man looked upon Eldoth. He seemed utterly, utterly disgusted.

'Good evening, my dear Ravenika... and to you, Eldoth. I see that Imryl served as a good guide.'

'I do understand the awe some people express at the mere sight of a comb. After all, for someone not familiar with a soap, anything more advanced can cause a culture shock', the troubadour remarked, adressing me.

I decided to ignore these words, and so did Lobar. We both knew that the bard, however ired, was wrong. I have met quite a few men who made running a brothel their profession. Most of them either flaunted or pretended wealth, wearing shiny fabrics and excessive amounts of jewelery - many of these loathsome creations weighing more than a two handed sword. Despite their efforts, it would be Lobar - simply dressed and devoid of any adornments - who compared to them looked like a prince amongst beggars. A cruel, bored prince of a country as little as the Low Lantern, yet still a prince.

'As we arranged, I take it?'

'Indeed.'

The sleeping girl looked as if she was an actor, playing the role of a dying princess in a climatic scene between her and the male protagonist. 'Tis so, a voice in my mind added, she is dying. And it is you who killed her. Pity it was, then. I spent twenty three years with my conscience, and yet it did not fail to amaze me even after such a long time. These matters, however, would have to wait until I had the time to write a proper song. Now, it was time for gold. Had I a mecenas, I would not have to resort to such sinister ways of earning my coin. Still, the times were rough, the bards had to get by. So it goes.

The inkeeper looked at our merchandise. It was obvious that he was examining her, checking if her hair was a wig, if her family crest was a false one, if the equisite features of her face were an effect of properly applied make - up.

'It is her, right?'

'The one and only', I assured, seeing he failed to find any flaws, 'We even left her signet ring on. You might want to destory it, given the circumstances...'

'Signet rings can be forged. If you people excuse me...'

He produced a short, ivory wand out of the pocket of his trousers. Aiming for the unconscious girl, he uttered a single word. A light read beam shot from the bone - carved wand. It reached her, forming an intangible circlet around her head.

'What is your name?'

'Skie.'

Her voice bore no emotions; neither did her eyes.

'Who is your father?'

'Entar Silvershield. But he is dead.'

'Do you have siblings?'

'Eddard. But he died, too.'

'Sleep.'

The command made her do it instantly. Within mere seconds, she was fast asleep, her breath as regular and peaceful as it was before. It seemed Eldoth was right, after all... Lobar put the small wand back into his pocket and approached the girl to crouch beside her.

'Her indeed. This trinket prevents many things, lying is one of them. A must have for a bordello owner, consider it if you are planning to start one on your own', he advised in an obvious mockery of Eldoth's usual tone, 'Where did you two get her from, anyway?'

The bard smirked. I knew it was his turn to answer. He would never miss a chance to brag, even if the only audience was a man whom he despised.

'Oh, it is no secret at all. For you see... she loves me.'

Both men bursred out laughing. I chose not to join the choir. It was true grace of the gods that the troubadour spared Lobar the whole story. If he told him everything: of his scheme, of the 'abduction', of her father's gold, of her father's death and the way it complicated everything.. well, he would actually admit that the Low Lantern owner was doing us a favour. A huge favour. And, alas, he would be right. Something was rotten in the Silveshield Estate, and not only the Fists would be able to sniff it out. Given time, they would discover everything, including Eldoth's nice little plan. They would also find out of the part I played in carrying it out. Travelling with Skie became a dangerous pastime. Given how dull and irritating it already was, I had no desire to risk the dubious pleasure of keeping her company for any longer. What, pray tell, place was better to hide our little princess than the one where nobody would look for her?

Lobar seemed content with this arrangement as well.

'A dainty little lady in my whorehouse', he observed, 'A virgin, of course?'

'Of course', Eldoth spoke, 'I guarantee it.'

I raised an eyebrow at him, surprised. It was easy to forget how different he was from most men.

'Ravenika, dear Ravenika, of what use would that be?'

The Low Lantern owner seemed not to care about the bard's views on this matter.

'Once again, excuse me', he spoke, 'Tough times ahead, a man gotta make sure of everything.'

I looked away, so did my companion. Our eyes did not meet on their way to avoid the atrocity. Still, I was sure that both his and mine would betray the same disgust. Lobar did not mind. Not surprisingly, he was familiar with such things.

'Heh heh, harmlessly and swiftly. Done and done. Should have known you people were telling the truth', he spoke as he wiped his fingers with the hem of her cloak, 'Pleasure doing bussiness with you. Whatever the little one is dreaming of, must be something hella nice.'

'That is enough', I stated, 'Get this over with, Lobar.'

'As you wish. I forget that many of our providers do not fancy seeing the consequences. Thirty thousand gold pieces, as promised. You will get the pay on your way out. Imryl will meet you at the exit... but please, stay the night. Everything on the house. A token of my friendship.'

We held our peace. The huge man picked Skie up from the ground and loaded her upon his shoulders. His face or body never betrayed any, even the slightest sign of effort. How I envied him...

'No need for modesty', he added, 'No need at all. What do you need, friend? A skilled courtesan and a few bottles of Berduskan?'

He adressed Eldoth first, thinking a man of such manners would be easier to persuade into making the proper use of the bordello's hospitality. Well, the owner was in for a minstrel grimaced. Lobar could not know that the bard would very rarely indulge in the pleasures of spontaneous physical love. For him, such encounters were bussiness deals, exchanges of services, all trade. The inkeeper could have advertised an elementar swordplay course to a knight just as well.

'Berduskan, yes', Eldoth confirmed, 'A room. And most of all, the peace of solitude.'

'And you, Ravenika? Surely a woman of action needs her time to relax, eh? Or maybe you despise the little entertainment we provide, here?'

'Outstanding intuition: I do, indeed. I shall repeat after my companion: Berduskan and a bedchamber. And a bath. A lone one, as well. The road to your establishment was not a pleasant one.'

'At your service. Imryl! Take the girl and show our dear Eldoth to his room. You, Ravenika, please follow me.'

'Is everything as you like it?'

I looked around. It was, I had to admit. The tub, separated from the rest of the room with a see - through screen, was filled with hot water. The steam bore scents of lavender and roses, even more pleasant after the crawl through the sewers. The bed looked comfortable enough, with silken sheets and more pillows than I could ever need. A bucket of ice with three bottles of Berduskan, standing on a small, wodden table, was the most appealing item of all. A thin, white mist of chill covered the bottles. Cold wine. Eldoth considered it barbaric. I did not care. After all, it was the charming, not the tedious who set the standards.

'It is, yes. Thank you. I trust you will leave me to my rest, now.'

Lobar snorted, obviously discontent with the way I treated him. He regarded me for a moment, letting his gaze linger over my body. A smile curved his lips.

'Think you are better than me, don't you?'

'Ethically speaking? No. However, considering that you run a whorehouse, and I am an accomplished warrior and a bard, yes. Do not be offended, please. I gather you asked for an honest opinion.'

My reason kept repeating one sentence: You should not be doing this. He might denounce you, even risking his own head and position. Still... all instincts commanded to confront him. To wipe the grin off his face. To break his self - assurance.

'Awfully sure of yourself, eh?', he spoke, never taking his eyes off me, 'One day you could be the one getting sold.'

It was many months after this unpleasant encounter when I realized what had driven me then. Not knowing it was no simple wrath, I drew my shortsword from the scabbard, stepped back, gestured with the unoccupied hand, shouted a single word. He reached for his wand. Preparation, I thought, always a man's smile faded and disappeared as I toyed with the dark, shapeless cloud the quick spell created. The dark mist seemed to absorb all the light, turning a comfortable bedchamber into a crypt. Smirking, I approached Lobar, stopping only a few inches away from him. His ivory trinket fell to the ground, now useless. I kicked it away, sending the item to the far side of the room, against the southern wall.

'The Finger of Death', I lectured, 'Young adepts of magic call it Instant Kill. I have to say I prefer the former term. You see, when the spell strikes, the blackness forms a single finger, ended with a claw... the last sight for many people to behold.'

He fell silent and motionless, as if the spell had a hold effect as well. Circling him, I continiued.

'Awfully sure of yourself, eh? One day, you could be the one getting killed.'

'I... I didn't mean...'

'Silence.'

He obeyed without question. I felt the excitement rush through my veins, hastening the heart's beat.

'First of all, you use too many adverbs. Even start your sentences with them, for crying out loud. Second, you ask questions about the obvious. A really, really iritating habit. Third, to use your language, you do not know when to bluff and when to fold. Four, you cannot distinguish the strong from the weak. Apologize.'

'I am sorry.'

'Sorry is not good enough.'

I had to admit he had a spine. At this point most people were on their knees, shocked with the closeness of their potential death. Not him. He asked for pardon, konwing it was essential for his survival, but not humiliating himself more than it was necessary. Fixing his eyes before his feet, he started again:

'Please, forgive my impoliteness.'

Impoliteness. Nice. I thought he would make it 'rudeness'. Maybe he caught the word from a travelling bard. Who knows.

'Very well', I noded, stepping aside 'Just this once. I saw you conceited as well as frightened, both incarnations are tedious. Off with you.'

He went away, all the while looking over his shoulder as if he expected me to launch the spell anyway. For a brief moment, I considered calling him back. No. This time I would listen to reason, not instincts. Letting him too close could be dangerous... The door swung shut after him. I sighed, relaxed and sent the unused energy back to the Weil. Then I closed the door, both with a handy spell and a lock. Preparation. Always a necessity. A small object, light in colour and laying in the corner of the room, caught my eye. His wand, I understood. The wand he used to check Skie's identity.

Content, I picked it up. 'The trinket prevents many things', I recalled, 'Lying is one of them.' A sufficient reward for dealing with the lout, no doubt. Still smirking, I put it on the table. Eldoth divided people into the charming and the tedious. My system was more adequate. The strong and the weak. A most reasonable division. A most convenient explanation.

And that, my dear friends, is why I adore philosophy.

_finis_


	5. On with the Motley

I was just about to retire to my bedchamber for the night - exhausted, unsure of the continuity of my existence and definitely, definitely too sober to handle it all. Athkatla, I thought to myself, pacing around the well-adorned, large room. The obvious luxury of Mithrest brought no comfort to me. The inn, perhaps one of the best in Amn, had failed to provide me with a sense of security, even a faint one. Athkatla, the city of rapid changes! Come one, come all. Come, come, wake up in a madman's dungeon only to end the day drinking in the most exquisite company. Come one, come all! Come, return from yet another mission for the local gang of thugs and thieves at dawn. The glorious feerie of the southern sunset will colour the clear sky while you are good and well, back to being a lawful citizen! Come one, come all! Athkatla, the place where all dreams, nightmares included, come true!

I sat at the dressing table, adjusted the laces of my turquoise nightgown, unfastened the ribbon that held my braid together. The shining piece of fabric fell upon the vanity's tabletop, it's twisted shape resembling a garrote. I looked into the mirror, gazing into my own eyes - bloodshot, feverish, betraying tiredness and fear. Fear... yes, there was fear, and there were nightmares as well. Some of them known, embraced, coming from the very core of my soul. Others had nothing to do with Bhaal and the gift he bestowed upon me and my unknown mother. There were common, almost vulgar in appearance: visions of a dagger in the dark, of poison, of torture. Thus were the dreams of one who did not expect a happy ending to the story of their involvement with the thieves guild. Of one who believed working for Lethinan was not nearly enough. Of one who believed she could best Mae'Var in his game of choice.

_'Curse you, Renal'_, I whispered to myself as I reached for the comb, _'Curse you...'_

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall land the finishing blow, I shall find and claim the thrice-damned incriminating documents, I shall bring them to the unusual man whose friendly demeanor and menacing pseudonym were one of the most obvious examples of dissonance I have ever encountered. Bloodscalp. Gods, so pretentious, so trivial, taken straight out of some awful play or some orkish legend. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall try not to get killed. And if all goes well, from then on I shall never again choose an enemy whom I cannot face openly, sword in hand.

I smiled, realizing how barbaric and primitive my battles of choice would be. Warriors of Norheim would have surely believed such a goal to be honorable and noble. For me, 'twas only pragmatism. There was no other choice, seeing that I was working under pressure and alone. Eldoth had not deserted me yet - however, it was only a question of time until he would do so. My comrade's talents lay in music, acting and negotiations. Whenever fighting would come into the picture, he preferred to let me handle the more menial tasks. Whenever I would think of the past and future battles, my gaze would turn to the Sword of Chaos, now leaned against the wall. The two-handed weapon was gleaming in the grayness of the dusk. The lines of our father's crest-of-arms, adorning the chappe, seemed to shine with a pale, scarlet light of their own.

Sarevok. By all the gods of Faerun, Sarevok... what would I not give to have him by my side now, a comrade of arms, an ally. However, only the blade remained, a testimony to my bitter victory. I had prevailed then, I remembered. My mind, the cruel device it is, evoked the images of those who had not. Ravenika of Candlekeep, I thought to myself, you are mad. Must you torture yourself so? Had Irenicus not given you enough pain? Evoked a masochistic streak, perchance? Smile, smile, you grieving, frightened fool. Smile. On with the motley...

I arose, walked past the blue carpet, took the hilt of Sarevok's sword in my hand. 'Twas a calming thing to do. The weapon was known to me, oddly familiar, and it seemed to respond to the blood of Bhaal cursing through my veins in a rapid cycle. Despite of the blade's size, I was able to wield it, not single-handedly though, as my brother had done that night, beyond the city of Baldur's Gate. Many a time I felt the desire to abandon my short swords and knives in favour of this fine weapon. There was no telling, however, how many days of practice would it take to make me as adept in using the blade of Chaos as I was with the former. Not to mention that a two-handed sword was less than poorly suited to the kinds of battle I had chosen; to my doom, it would seem.

_'Curse you, Renal...'_

I missed the North. I missed the battles, the fights that took place in the dungeons, the forests, the palaces. I missed the life I led, this wild chase after another Bhaalspawn. How I detested the skirmishes in the dirty streets of Athkatla! How I detested the sun, the heat, the flamboyant courtesy. Gods, how I detested it all! If only there was a chance to get out of here, to get transported straight to my captor so that I could rip his heart out of his chest! By Sune, I would have accepted help from Cyric, himself, was there such a chance...

For a moment as brief as the blink of an eye, it had seemed that the Gods had seen it fit to fulfill my wish in the most forward and simple of fashions, as a misty door formed in the gray shadows of the air. The man who passed the non-material doorstep, however, was Jon lrenicus. He was a mage, yes, and known to me, met years ago in the Sword Coast and now in Athkatla...

_'Odesseiron',_ I nodded my head; a slightly dismissive, but still courteous greeting.

_'Ravenika',_ he replied in the exact same manner, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously close to 'she does not even have a last name, bastards everywhere!'

I smiled. It was with great effort that I managed to keep this expression on my face. Thoughts of death raced through my troubled mind, death, fear and torture. He knows, I thought.

_'Mae'Var wishes to see you. He will not tolerate any delay (and neither will I, for the matter)._'

The nightmares became reality. The inevitability of this fact filled me with a most curious, paradoxical even sense of release and tranquility. If Mae'Var himself wished me dead, there was little I could do. The finale of the mystery play was approaching. All I could do was to put on the motley, powder my face and laugh about it, as a good jester should.

_'Well, he shall have to wait, regardless'_, I spoke, _'As you can see, I am not attired properly.'_

_'Truly, do all you northern wenches sleep with their swords instead of men?'_

_'As afore said, I need to get dressed. Kindly leave. Through the door, if that would not be too much of a burden. I shall join you in a moment.'_

_'Why would you throw me out, Ravenika? (She must think this thin veil hides anything, blasted hypocritical prudes!)'_

_ 'Please, leave.'_

_'I dare say...'_

_'Leave.'_

On with the motley, I thought to myself, lacing my dark blue gown. The familiar, cold touch of the daggers concealed within it's long and wide sleeves was a calming sensation. On with the motley... and even if the heroine is destined to die in the finale, there will be hell to pay.

I entered the Guildmaster's suite, my heart beating so hard as if it was trying to break free of the bone-made cage that sheltered it. There was nothing strange about it's pace - after all, there was little chance for it to continue to pump blood through my corpse... For a brief moment, I forgot of the grim fate that probably awaited me. Stopping in the antechamber, I admired the room. It was surprising, shocking even, to find how very different this place was from the torturer's den. Even the famed bardic imagination had not prepared me for what I have found there. Mae'Var, as it turned out, was most probably running a private gallery as well, rich, well-adorned and full of rarities. Batalistic scenes and idylls at dusk hang upon the walls. Numerous sculptures were perfect effigies of probably any sorts of male and female bodies alike; the heavy, steel-like muscles of the orcs, the light and exquisite beauty of the elves.

The collection was perfect. There was nothing unpleasant to behold there, nothing that would break the harmony of various kinds of beauty. Even Eldoth would have approved, of that I was sure - why, he could even compliment Mae'Var by saying that the Guildmaster's tastes are almost as close to perfection as his own. There was, however, one anamorphosis there, one that was more fascinating than all the others. This lonely artwork was made of flesh and blood. It was the host himself, now finally seen without his hood and cloak, without his regalia.

Death was usually depicted as an imposing figure, wielding a scythe or a greatsword... Mae'Var was wearing robes of dark violet. A mere dagger was hanging from his belt. Those, however, were the only differences. The man: extremely tall and lean, dark-haired, hollow-eyed, could be Kelemvor himself. Kelemvor... or a strange creature, a curious one, not entirely man or woman-like, dual and androgynous, a modern resemblance of the primitive, two-faced gods of lust and death.

_'I am happy'_, he spoke, his voice lower than that of a female and higher than that of a male,_ 'That you decided to accept my invitation.'_

I approached him, passing a marble bowman by. Was this item an effect of superb artistry, or just petrification? I shall never know. Gazing into the gleaming, resin-conserved canvas as if it was a mirror, I came to the conclusion that - in case Mae'Var is not planning to cut me into pieces - I shall make a lovely corpse.

_'Why, it would be a grave indiscretion to refuse. I had no choice but to oblige, at least Edwin hinted at that.'_

_ 'Edwin...'_, the Guildmaster smiled lightly; a cold countenance it was, curving the lips, but never reaching the dark eyes, _'The likes of him have little choice in the same set of talents. The same boundaries. The same, quite tiresome delusions of grandeur. You, on the other hand... have quite a great potential.'_

Potential. I remembered the word. It was echoing in my skull ever since the day Irenicus captured me - captured us. The memories, evoked by this key-word, appeared before my eyes in ray of pain, hatred and humiliation, a madwoman's kaleidoscope. Now, however, the one whom I was to face was not nearly as powerful. I was different, as well, and strengthened by the experience.

_ 'Yes'_, the pale man continued, _'An accomplished bard, a skilled warrior, a discreet assassin... and as it turned out, also quite the actress. Such distractions become uninteresting after a moment or two. One cannot indulge himself in such amusements forever.'_

It was not a hint; it was a declaration, bright and true. Instead of acting, however, and killing me for my treachery, he sat down at a small, ivory-encrusted table, and gestured for me to join him there. It was surprising how soft his moves were, now, when he was at ease; it was amazing how different they were from the cruel, calculated motions that he displayed while cutting through Lin's flesh. An anamorphosis, I said to myself once again, a living mask.

Was that why he felt more confident, surrounded by countless effigies, obvious and simple in their form? The artworks were either light or heavy, depicted either the strength of arms or the swiftness of motions, battle or peace, hatred or lust. Could it be that he craved such unity, he, who was ever-changing, ever different, dual, he, who resembled a rogue stone - displaying a different shade every time one would spare him a gaze? Wondering whether will I have the chance to ask about it in this life, I rested on a chair, facing him.

_'The show must go on. That is the very first lesson every bard must learn.'_

He smiled at me. I clenched my hands, trembling slightly at the sight. I remembered the expression. From the torture room. It was the very same smile that Lin's pain had caused.

_'I wonder... how long would this show of yours last, were you to replace our dear elf in the cellars?'_

I had been there before, I thought, looking straight into the man's eyes. I had been there before and emerged stronger. More fearless. Alive.

_'That, Guildmaster, depends only on the skill of your interrogators.'_

It appeared that the suggestion amused him; he leaned towards me, his form seeming even taller than it was before. 'Interrogators? I would have done it myself.' Would, I repeated in my mind, clutching to this faint hope, would, not will.

_'It is a great surprise, then, that you recieve me here of all places. Was Lin also equally honored? Oh, I do have to say, the collection is quite a fascinating one to behold. A sight for sore eyes, truly.'_

'No, I had not graced Lin with the same privilege. We, Ravenika, are the lovers of art, and due to our fraternity, can be honest to one another. Let me share a honest remark with you, then, as you seem more than capable to bear it. I know you are, or were, planning to end my existence. I also know that it was Renal Bloodscalp who ordered you to do so.'

I nodded my head. There was no point in lying, no point in attempting to use rhetorics - there was no point in replying at all.

_'Ah, your eyes. I do enjoy seeing this gleam of fear. You fell silent, bard. What of your show?'_

_'This is your line, Guildmaster'_, it was quite the task to speak when one's throat was as dry as mine, _' The one where you either send me to my death or tell me that all is lost... prior to a proposition to form an alliance, of course.'_

_'On no hope, you are correct. The Night Knives are already in town, you and your bard alone cannot dispatch of two dozen people, and the soon to be late Renal Bloodscalp is a dead man already. As you said, the show must go on, and it shall, regardless of the fact that the director might become a dead man.' _

_'And now, for the proposition...?' _

_'Not in this play, my lady Bluesleeves. It is I who needs to hear one. Why, pray tell, would you prove more useful free and healthy than sharing the dubious pleasures of Lin's company, all inclusive?'_

_ 'My... escorts might find delivering me there a dubious pleasure, as well.' _

_'It is resistance that makes such escapades exciting. Tell me... what would, what will you do to stay alive?'_

He needed me. I realized that, in a sudden epiphany, concluded, compared the facts as I had compared the sculptures, earlier. He needed me to do something that was indirectly connected with his plans on taking Renal's place. He needed me to continue misguiding Bloodscalp. He needed me, as I was still an operating agent. He needed me... to put on the motley and go on with the show, this evening and most probably many evenings to come. Send in the bards...

_'I will play my part. Right until the surprising finale. That is what you want, is it not? That is the cause of your gracious invitation.'_

_'That... and a few matters besides.'_

I kept silent, restraining myself from asking the obvious question. He nodded at me, as if complimenting my temperance.

_'There is also the issue of your unique heritage. I know who you are... and I know what you are. I also know that Renal will not help you in finding what you seek. He will fail. The man's methods are not much more efficient than Lethinan's.'_

Unsurprisingly, he knew of this degrading part of my life as well. Luckily, I had finally come to my senses and deserted the rat king's pack, much to Eldoth's relief. My companion would always argue how high should the cost of a Bhaalspawn's loyalty be.

_'And what do you think I seek, Mae'Var?'_

He laughed silently, amused by my boldness. 'You seek power. Who knows, maybe as obsessively as the man who had captured you.'

More, I corrected him, in thought, even more so, just less desperately. Not to mention the lack of a dungeon full of golems and duergars at my disposal. Not to mention the dozens of informants, a set of living tools whom both my captor and Mae'Var could use at will.

_'I can see you followed our private war with great interest.'_

_'The war is not as private as it would seem... and as such, it is not yours only. The quarrels between bards and mages are of little meaning to me.' 'Excluding the cases where the bard is a child of Bhaal?'_

_'The mage is an... oddity of sorts, as well'_, Mae'Var rested his chin on clasped hands; his fingers were long, pale and narrow, _'Obviously, such information are only shared amongst... friends.'_

_'And how does a homeless bard become the friend of the feared Guildmaster? In spite of all the... past disagreements?' _

_'The said bard should advance the Master's carrier, of course.' _

_'By singing?' _

_'By keeping silent. You see...'_

My deeds at Renal's Guild deserve no remembrance, no song, no story. In truth, 'twas trivial in it's plainness and easiness. Aye, for it was easy to enter the chamber, to open the private chest with a key someone else had obtained. It was easy to plant evidence there, evidence someone else had forged, three scrolls. It was easy to exit the guild, it was easy to do so knowing that someone else will assassinate Renal during the next dawn, that someone else will bring the matter to Aran Linvail's attention, that someone else will suggest appointing Mae'Var to the now abandoned post.

It was easy to realize that such a manner of operating - of fighting, as it were - was not without it's rewards. The fool's motley, after all, was far more comfortable than a set of armour.


End file.
